


false starts and true ends

by OnyxSphinx



Category: Alex Rider (TV 2020), Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28744869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: “Tom,” Alex says, enunciated sharply; obviously attempting to make it as clear as he can, “I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend.”It’s a Monday. Two pm. Drizzling, so he’s wearing a coat, but his hair is damp, and curling slightly because of it. Approximately eighteen degrees. Tom gapes at him, mind running ten times faster than usual. “Sorry, come again?” he manages to wheeze out.
Relationships: Tom Harris/Alex Rider
Comments: 4
Kudos: 92





	false starts and true ends

**Author's Note:**

> well my alex rider hyperfixation has returned so i've resorted to writing fic

“Tom,” Alex says, enunciated sharply; obviously attempting to make it as clear as he can, “I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend.”

It’s a Monday. Two pm. Drizzling, so he’s wearing a coat, but his hair is damp, and curling slightly because of it. Approximately eighteen degrees. Tom gapes at him, mind running ten times faster than usual. “Sorry, come again?” he manages to wheeze out.

Alex—handsome, frizzying haired, Tom’s best friend—sighs. “Can I come in.” It’s less of a question and more of a statement—in the years since being forced to work for MI6, his speech has changed; less questions, more statements. Tom doesn’t want to think too deeply about what that might indicate.

He starts. “Fuck—yeah, sorry, I forgot it’s raining.” He didn’t really. “Come in. There’s pizza on the counter if you want any.”

Alex slinks through the door like some sort of large, wet, blond cat; lithe and tense and alert, but always at home. Tom has to stifle a hysterical laugh as he realises that Alex probably knows his flat as well as he does.

He lets Tom have first choice; and takes the couch once Tom half-collapses onto the armchair. “So,” Tom says, and his voice cracks on that simple single syllable. He clears it. “So,” he says, again more decisive, and stares at Alex, waiting for an explanation.

Alex practically vacuums up two pieces of pizza—anchovie free—and adjusts his position so he’s sitting up ramrod straight. When he speaks, his voice is low and even. “There’s a party being hosted in two night’s time. The agency managed to get me an invitation—I need to be there to establish a connection with a possible defector from Russian secret intelligence who’s going to be there. But,” he pauses, before continuing, “I need a plus-one.”

“And you came to me?” His voice is high, and he thinks, shit, shit, don’t act so— so what, he’s not sure, but he needs to stop. He tries again. “Why not ask—I dunno, what’s the name of that one girl? Sabrina?”

“Sabina,” Alex corrects. “And I haven’t talked to her in three years.“

"Oh.” Tom purses his lips. “Okay.”

Alex blinks at him; for the first time since he’s entered the flat seeming slightly taken aback. “Okay?” he echoes. “You’re not going to—argue? Or try and ask for something in return?” The disbelief in his tone is almost audible; and Tom suddenly feels a fiery rage towards MI6—not for the first time.

He nods. “Yeah. Okay. You’re my best friend. I trust you.”

Alex swallows; his throat bobbing; and Tom tries not to track the action; fails. “Okay,” he repeats.

* * *

Two days later, Tom’s pulling on a newly-rented navy-blue suit and trying to not be too nervous as he waits for Alex to arrive. He said he’d pick Tom up at seven; and the clock on the wall reads ten till.

He smooths his hair down; trying to get one particular strand to stop springing up; finally succeeds.

There’s a knock on the door; and he’s halfway there to get it when it opens, revealing Alex. “You ready to go?” he calls.

“Yeah,” Tom returns; and then half-freezes when he sees Alex in full. The other’s dressed in a form-fitting black tuxedo, and the dark blue bowtie he’s wearing brings out his normally stormy brown eyes, making them softer and deeper. Tom swallows. “Yeah,” he half-croaks. “Let’s go.”

Alex shakes his head. “Not yet,” he says, “your tie’s crooked.” Quick and deft, he reaches forward and fixes it; before flashing a grin at Tom and smoothing his hands over the other’s lapels. “There we go,” he says. “You look perfect.”

Tom’s knees are week. “Thanks,” he manages; hoping the other doesn’t notice how breathy his voice is.

The drive to the party is quiet; the car eating up the road before them in silence, hardly jostling at all when they have to go through a series of potholes. “Agency-issue,” Alex explains. “Smithers tinkered around with it a bit.”

Tom’s not sure who Smithers is; but whatever he did, it seems to have made the car a helluva lot better.

When they get there, Alex gets out first; coming around to the passenger side of the car and opening the door, offering Tom his arm. Tom takes it, hoping Alex can’t somehow hear how rapidly his heart is beating.

Once they get inside, Alex disappears practically instantly; leaving Tom to skulk around the edges of the party, accepting drinks from passing waiters. Though he knew that Alex probably wouldn’t be sticking around him the entire time, it still disappoints him slightly.

When Alex does reappear, he looks harried; and someone’s spilled wine down his front; staining his white shirt and waistcoat. “Restroom,” is all he says, and makes off past Tom. Tom, at a loss for what else to do, follows after him.

He finds the other in the restroom, hunched over the sink, dabbing at his front with paper towels. Tom sighs. “I take it it didn’t go like you wanted it to?”

Alex grimaces. “Not exactly,” he says, and doesn’t elaborate.

Tom sighs again; places a hand over Alex’s to still it. “Let me,” he says, “you’re just going to rub it into the fabric.” With careful movements, he undoes the buttons on the jacket and waistcoat; untucks the shirt and pulls it away from Alex’s skin; wets a few paper towels and begins to dab at it again.

“You seem to know what you’re doing,” Alex says; sounding unduly amused.

Tom huffs. “Had to learn after I accidentally dumped wine on my aunt’s wedding dress last year.”

Alex whistles. “Damn.”

“Yeah. Now shut up and let me clean your shirt.”

Alex obeys the directive, surprisingly; leaving Tom to continue dabbing at the large red spot. Finally, it’s mostly faded out, leaving only a slight pink tinge, and Tom drops the wet paper towels into the garbage can.

When he looks up, Alex’s expression is an odd one; soft and open, something he hasn’t seen in years. He looks his age, for the first time in a long time. It suits him.

When he speaks, his voice is deep. “You know, when I invited you along, I didn’t think I’d wind up with your hand up my shirt.”

Tom starts; pulling back. “Sorry,” he says; blushing, he’s sure, with how hot his cheeks and ears are.

Alex waves him off. “It’s fine,” he says. “I don’t mind. Actually—” his expression turns slightly mischievous—"I wouldn’t mind if it happened again.“

Tom’s brain flatlines. All he can manage is, "Oh.”

Alex moves closer. Conversationally, he says, “I spent the entire time with the Russian spy thinking about you.”

“You did?” His voice is high. Alex nods; a hand finding purchase on Tom’s waist; the other, on his cheek. “Oh, God,” Tom says, only barely aware that he’s said it aloud. “You’re going to kiss me, aren’t you?”

Alex’s expression clouds slightly; and he pulls away. “I thought—” he begins; but Tom, who knows the signs of him putting walls up, of his nervousness and defensiveness and uncertainty, lunges forward and cuts him off with a kiss.

“I was just surprised, you idiot,” he says, when he pulls away.

Alex laughs, slightly breathless. “Oh,” he says; and leans in to kiss him again.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
